


opposites attract

by demios



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 00:00:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10978122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demios/pseuds/demios
Summary: Forsyth is definitely Python's opposite.





	opposites attract

**Author's Note:**

> ive had this game for less than a week but can you believe forsyth and python are married

Opposites attract, is how the old saying goes. Python doesn’t put much stock into what nonsense everyone back home tells him because they’ve been repeating it for years - even his father always said he’d settle down with a nice girl in town and take over the family trade, but he’d rather have a sword stuck in his side than work with a hammer another day. He’s not interested in maidens or carpentry, no matter how much they conflict with his aspirations, or lack thereof.

But Python supposes there might be a grain of truth to it, because if nothing else, Forsyth sure as hell is his opposite. It’s as if by hanging around the guy, he sucked out all of Python’s drive and energy. Where Forsyth is loud and passionate, Python rolls with the punches in the laziest way available. It’s a wonder how they’ve stuck together since they were young. Or, perhaps, that was the reason why, because Forsyth was so intent on yanking him around the more he refused to move.

It’s not a bad thing, per se. He won’t say he didn’t appreciate the chance to ditch their tiny town to play knights. (And hey, someone had to keep tabs on Forsyth, or else the fool would’ve lost his head, in both senses of the phrase.) So it might not be an entirely bad thing, being in the Deliverance and traipsing close to death on a regular basis only to be met with nobles who turned their nose up at them like they were flies on manure. Some things make it worth it. Some things like this, for example.

Instead of disappointing his old man in person, he can do it while marching across Zofia, where no one gives a damn what he does. No one except Forsyth, of course. Forsyth is busy chasing his dream of being a knight, but he’s made it painfully obvious in that shameless way of his that he, at the very least, doesn’t want Python to die despite dragging him into the whole affair in the first place. He can’t count how many fervent tirades he’s been victim to, but because it’s Forsyth, it makes Python want to tease him, and maybe express his thanks. So he does both - Python steals a kiss from him after they finish mess duty and things go downhill from there.

Python has Forsyth pinned to a cot with how he’s settled himself between the other’s legs, one hand deviously snaked between their hips. A bit of handiwork has Forsyth writhing beneath him and gods, Python can’t get enough of it. His face is flushed, not unlike when he gets riled up about some injustice or another, but instead of holding hatred for Rigelian soldiers or bandits it holds a desperation that only Python is privy to. (And isn’t that something special, Python thinks as he licks his lips.) He leans down to plant kisses on Forsyth’s cheeks, relishing the way the other’s breathing has become labored in his ear. Forsyth clings to Python when he dips down, looping his arms around his friend’s neck.

Forsyth usually has a lot to say about what Python does (or _doesn’t do_ , more like), but he’s uncharacteristically mute; the only thing that leaves his mouth are puffs of air and quiet moans filling the empty space of their tent. Well, Python can’t complain. Maybe he should have his hand on Forsyth’s dick more often.

Forsyth seems to agree, his hips jutting up in small movements as his eyelids flutter between closed and half-lidded. There’s only a measly amount of friction he could hope to get; they’re still fully clothed and Python’s touch is teasingly light on the front of his trousers. It doesn’t take much to get Forsyth worked up. The stiffness brushing up against his palm is the result of some kissing and heavy petting. Python thinks it’s cute. Scratch that - he thinks Forsyth is cute. He presses another kiss to the other’s jaw in appreciation.

The archer squeezes Forsyth’s length through his pants and is rewarded with a gasp, the knight squirming in response.

“Python…” Forsyth’s voice is but a hoarse whisper, not quite up to its usual boisterous volume. And it’s a good thing, too, because even though they have the tent to themselves, that doesn’t mean they aren’t within earshot of the rest of the Deliverance.

“Hmm? Need something, Forsyth?” Python feigns ignorance and pulls back, his hand instead trailing upward and under Forsyth’s shirt to rest on the muscles of his abdomen. They’re taut and warm underneath his touch, years of training making them prominent. Really, he could spend all day exploring everywhere that isn’t the place Forsyth wants him to touch the most if it weren’t for the noise that escapes the other. He almost feels bad about the whine his detour draws forth. Almost. “’Cause if you do, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“Ngh, Python, _touch me_.” Forsyth’s brow knits together in frustration. Part of his bangs have fallen over his face, but Python can see the tips of his ears have turned red.

The sight only spurs his smugness. “Oh? What’s in it for me? Do I get a kiss first?”

And Forsyth is always a little shy about sharing kisses and holding hands in front of others; says it’s not proper for knights to be so distracted all the time when they’ve a country to represent, even if the way their fingers link together is a subtle comfort during a long day’s march.

(Clive is the exception, Forsyth explained once. Mathilda could easily tear through Rigelian ranks without breaking a sweat and Clive has every reason to be smitten with her. Python wanted to remark that Forsyth was just as formidable with that shield of his, to be quite honest.)

But this time, he cups Python’s face with both hands and crashes into him - that’s the only way Python can think to describe it, the kiss is clumsy and forceful and so-very _Forsyth_ in its endearing effort. Their noses bump more than once and it’s too wet and uncoordinated when Forsyth tries to lick his way into Python’s mouth.

Forsyth also tastes like the stew they slaved over for dinner; that is, a generous helping of potatoes because Forsyth claimed that’s how his mother always went about it. Python raised a skeptical brow because while he didn’t pay any attention to what his mother or sister were cooking, he knew damn well she didn’t put half their harvest into the pot all at once. Or cut them into such hilariously uneven chunks. Unlike Python, whose father etched all the intricacies of carpentry into his bones, Forsyth was never good with his hands. His first and only attempts at archery were pitiful at best.

The memory makes Python laugh between breaths, making Forsyth release his face and frown in confusion. He looks like he’s going to say something, but Python nips at Forsyth’s bottom lip and that gets him to stop, thankfully. Alright. Payment accepted.

He pulls Forsyth’s trousers down slightly, just enough to pull his cock out and ensure he won’t be coming in his pants. (Because Python isn’t interested in late night laundry runs; they’re a phenomenal moodkiller and general pain in the ass, pun intended.) Forsyth’s length is swollen against his stomach and when Python wraps his hand around it and pumps, one of Forsyth’s knees jerks in surprise, nearly clocking Python in the face.

Python dodges with practiced reflexes and gently pushes his leg back into place. “Easy there,” He murmurs as he focuses on building a rhythm.

“Sorry,” Forsyth breathes, attention not fully on Python’s words.

The archer works him with firm strokes, making sure Forsyth can feel every callous and scar he’s gotten from their escapades. He watches Forsyth intently, greedily drinking in every expression that crosses his friend’s face. His cock aches from neglect and Python is suddenly struck with a brilliant idea. 

He takes his hand off Forsyth, pumping himself with one hand and lowering himself down Forsyth’s body to lick at his length. He coats it in a generous amount of saliva, feeling every shudder that passes through Forsyth and cry muffled by the back of his hand. Once Python deems the state of Forsyth’s dick acceptable, he aligns their hips together again and _thrusts._

The slide of their cocks feels downright _sinful_ , spit and precum making for just barely adequate lubrication. When Python grinds down and Forsyth raises his hips to meet him, both of them sigh in pleasure. Just another reason why they work great in tandem, Python thinks.

Their movements get more frantic once hands are added back into the equation. First it’s Python’s hand wrapped around both of their cocks and doing his damnedest to pump them in time with each thrust of their hips. Then it’s Forsyth’s hand joining his, their joint effort soon devolving into both of them taking each other’s length in hand.

Forsyth is hot and heavy in his grasp, erection twitching and throbbing as Python rubs it with a purpose. The archer finds himself fucking into Forsyth’s hand, being periodically squeezed in a way that keeps him on edge. The other’s free hand grips the arm Python is using to support himself, and the faint burn is the only thing keeping him grounded as he gets closer, _closer-_

There’s too much fumbling and breathing and _contact_ between them, and the look on Forsyth’s face (panting, moaning, losing that stick up his ass he’s known for and coming completely _undone_ because of _Python_ ) pushes him over the edge. He comes with a grunt, spilling over their hands and adding to the slickness of it all. His head spins with the effort, limbs already weaknening, but he still works Forsyth until he, too, reaches his release and makes the most debauched face and noise all the while.

Then the only sound in the room is their breaths as their heartbeats slow. Python takes a deep breath and savors the moment of pure peace – he has to, because it’s fleeting when he soon wrestles with the desire to simply slump against Forsyth and pass out or clean up the mess they’ve made (because believe him, he does _not_ want to be sleeping in that).

Common sense wins out, and he reaches for a rag to wipe themselves up with as they put themselves back in order. It’s carelessly tossed aside when it’s soiled enough and _then_ Python takes the opportunity to bask in his well-deserved afterglow while sprawled on Forsyth like a satisfied cat.

Forsyth speaks first, holding Python close by the back of his head and winding a hand in his hair. He sighs. “We don’t have watch duty delegated to us for once, and this is how you choose to spend the night?”

Python is unapologetic as he nestles into the crook of Forsyth’s neck, listening to the thrumming of their pulses. A stray glance reveals that Forsyth’s bangs still hang over his face, and Python thinks he looks a little odd like that. He takes it upon himself to brush them back before replying. “I’m not complaining.”

“We still have to get up in the morning, you know. And didn’t you agree to give Tobin pointers before we start marching?”

“You were too cute. Tobin can wait.” The archer retorts. “And hey, it’s not like one of us is marching with a sore ass this time.”

“Must you be so crass?” Forsyth snaps in annoyance, but it lacks any real force behind it. Python titters.

The archer holds up his arm and admires it, the skin adorned with red streaks courtesy of Forsyth’s nails. The guy has a grip like a gladiator with muscles to match; Python considers himself fortunate Forsyth hadn’t accidentally snapped his arm in half. “Yeowch, looks like I got attacked by a Terror.”

Guilt seeps into Forsyth’s features when their eyes meet and Python can feel him shift underneath. “Do you need something from the medicinal tent? Because-”

Python waves his arm in the air, nearly swatting Forsyth in the face this time. “Nah, it’s fine. You better not move, ‘cause you’re comfy as hell.”

“If you say so…” Python intends to put the issue to rest (and put _himself_ to rest, geez) but instead, Forsyth catches his wrist and brings the marred skin of his forearm to his lips, lightly brushing against it in apology.

And that, of all things, makes Python’s cheeks color much like the first time he and Forsyth shared a kiss. (They were kids, hidden away in a grove on the outskirts of town, legs dipped in the cool water of a stream, the warmth of their youth only adding to the heat of the sun.)  Forsyth seems to have noticed, too, because he only offers Python a knowing smile and a kiss on the inside of his wrist before letting his arm drop.

Forsyth chuckles, the warm sound resounding in his chest. “Get some rest, friend. We’ll need it for tomorrow.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Python dreads getting up in the morning, but he supposes waking up with Forsyth won’t be that bad.

(It, of course, is that bad, because Forsyth is up at the crack of dawn and all his shuffling and nudging wakes up Python without fail and he already has a list of grievances with Python’s sluggishness without the archer having even done anything. Therein lies the problem, Forsyth tells him. Python merely quiets him with a peck on the lips and gets dressed, letting Forsyth tug him along to another day of knighthood.)


End file.
